Keeping it Classy

There's always the lady with two or three carts and her army of children aimlessly standing around in my way.  There's that one guy who's knees are bad and he's riding in the store provided hoveround with all his body spilling over in all the places, and in his cart I see seven cases of diet soda and thirty pizzas.  I see fifty teenagers I'd like to kick for dressing stupid and at least three old ladies who are taking their time comparing prices in front of the thing I want to get out of the cooler.  I say all this to make myself feel better than them,  while I am standing at Walmart, trying to figure out what sort of wine goes with corn dogs and freedom fries, while my crying two year old tries to escape the cart and my nine year old is whacking him on the head with a french bread in an attempt to beat him back into his seat.